


he will call you miracle

by doubtthestars



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, honest to god i dont know how to tag this, not a sobfest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-28
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-26 03:21:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3835075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doubtthestars/pseuds/doubtthestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the world cup, Manuel slowly unravels.</p><p>“Manu, you’re the best goalkeeper we’ve ever had and one of the best in the world. We’re here because of you and we won’t lose because of you.” Benni states it so matter of factly that Manu doesn’t know what to do,  what to feel with that sort of faith.</p>
            </blockquote>





	he will call you miracle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Rin_SchwarzFeuer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rin_SchwarzFeuer/gifts).



The last time Manuel had gone through a World Cup, it had brought change he couldn’t predict.

(He wonders sometimes, if the red was a test.)

South Tyrol is rainy and charged with malevolent ghosts. It gets worse when Benedikt and Julian get in an accident and Manuel cannot sleep. Sweat sticks to his neck with dreams unanswered and incomplete. 

There is uncertainty everywhere but Philipp is a weathered island. Julian is fine. Benedikt is fine. He doesn’t get the details until Benni is there, sitting with a blanket around his shoulders on the couch. 

“Wehrlein hit two people.” is all he says before Manuel uses his considerable size to envelop the man in a hug. His steady breathing pulls Benedikt out of his agitated state; he tucks his head in to make himself smaller, as small as he feels. 

They don’t say much, because words would be used up with the others and whatever counter-measure press report Benni would have to do. Manuel’s knee digs into his side, but he doesn’t let go until Philipp comes in to remind them to eat. 

Thomas switches rooms with him, or Basti and the rest agree in some clandestine meeting they were not privy to, because Jogi was clear about preferences and team building and Manu wasn’t supposed to be in the fourth house, not with Kevin and Basti being present.

Campo Bahia is a dream, much better than Italy. Kevin doesn’t shit-talk too much, and Matthias doesn’t listen to his warnings anyway, preferring to hang out with Julian and the other younger players. Mats jokes that rivalry doesn’t belong under Benedikt’s roof. Kevin and Basti drag him into the pool.

(Everyone knows Basti has barely stepped out of the Arsenal house, there was photographic evidence after all.)

Benni originally was going to room with Thomas, which left them together for six to eight hours when they were supposed to rest, but Manu couldn’t stop the constant thrum of nerves under his skin and if Benni crawled into his bed late at night, well they knew similar situations were happening in the other houses. 

“Mats is still out.” Benni trudges in from a meeting and Manu sits up, lets his phone screen go dark. 

“It feels like Jerome and I were in there forever, what time is it?” Benedikt doesn’t stop at the spare bed, but flops down instead next to Manuel. 

“Time for you to get a watch.” He says lightly, eyes glued to the stretch of Benni’s shirt. His palms start itching, as if they were on the field and a player had gotten close enough that Manuel had to anticipate a save. 

(Three goals conceded isn’t too bad, he thinks.) 

“Hansi is _really_ meticulous.” Benni mutters, stretching out his arms, ignoring his trite joke. It had been a while, since the Schalke captain had visited Munich just to see Manuel, and even longer since Manuel had belonged to the royal blue, no matter how many times Kevin liked to remind them he was out-numbered. 

“Benni,” He hesitates, the name stopping up the flow of his thoughts. He looks down at his hands, thinks back on smaller ones, thinks of how many years it has been without gloves to keep them sheathed. 

Benni breaks the musings by grabbing ahold of one of them with a question in his eyes.

“Nevermind, the kitchen should still have something if you’re hungry?” Manuel covers anything and everything showing with a smile. He hops off the bed, intending to grab the one allotted beer for the night whatever Benni’s response.

“Sure.” 

Seven goals. Manuel is astounded, delirious, until Oscar gets a ball in. He shouts, frustrated at the mistake. Philipp pulls him aside and Jogi watches with interest. Manuel understands, but he cannot hold back his natural reaction to conceding another goal, especially so close to the end. Thomas texts him the photographs taken of him with a duck emoji attached and a QUACK!. 

In the end, Jerome being as blunt as usual, tell Benni and Manu to work off the problem because yelling at Mats wasn’t going to do anyone any favors. 

It is the Friday before the final and Manuel has seen, drank, and eaten enough footage of Messi and Aguero that he would die happily never seeing the names again. Benni had moved back to his bed. It had been two nights of tossing and turning and dreaming of the worst possible outcomes for their last match.

“Stop moving around,” Benni irritably demands. Manuel snorts. 

“I can’t go to sleep. Thomas tripped and Messi somehow injured Jerome in my last dream.” Benni suppresses a laugh unsuccessfully.

“It’s not gonna happen, well, Thomas might trip but he always gets back on his feet. The only way Messi could take down Jerome is with some magic, and everyone knows there can only be one magical dwarf on the field and we already have him.” 

Manuel sighs, irrationally already calmed down from Benni’s words. 

“I’m just afraid. Every second of the final is important. We’re almost there and if anything happens...if we lose the lead or if they tie, it’ll be my fault. I don’t even want to think about penalties.” 

“Manu, you’re the best goalkeeper we’ve ever had and one of the best in the world. We’re here because of you and we won’t lose because of you.” Benni states it so matter of factly that Manu doesn’t know what to do, what to feel with that sort of faith. 

Benni’s believed in him since 2001 and hasn’t stopped even as Manuel left him and his childhood club in 2011. It is a frustrating ball of self-contempt and years of taunts that makes him ask,

“Why don’t you hate me?” His voice doesn’t break but he shifts to lay on his side, to curl up, to not see the frown that is probably on Benni’s face.

“Manu,” He is angry in that terribly silent way, in the disappointed in rehashing the past sort of way. They’ve had this conversation before with terrible results. Manuel wishes he just would’ve gone to sleep.

“Manu, I couldn’t, ever. I could never, and if I need to explain why, then…” He sighs like a wounded animal taking its last breath. Manuel closes his eyes, pretends for his sake that he doesn’t understand. It’s too much, it’s too close to the biggest moment of their careers, to open that door.

He dreams about 2009, winning the U21 and Mats winking at him and Sami smiling in a way he hasn’t seen since. Mesut telling him to drink water and Jerome slapping his back when he chokes on the last drop of beer. He wakes up with a clear head. 

Manuel is certain they will be holding that trophy by the end.

125 minutes and his shoulders finally relax, sending a spasm through his arm. He shakes eleven hands and shakes Messi’s hand twice. The Golden Glove is almost an afterthought because the World Cup is theirs. 

He hugs Benni with tears in his eyes. No one can point any fingers now. They are weltmeister. 

The kiss afterwards is a more sophisticated echo of the one in 2009. He can taste the beer off Benni’s tongue and can’t stop pulling away to stare at him, to reaffirm that he’s here and it wasn’t another dream. 

It had taken twenty-four years for the Cup to come home with Germany, but Manuel won something else that night that had taken years also. Benni, with steadfast fingers presses love into every inch of 1.93 meters of him. 

(I love you too much to hate you.)

**Author's Note:**

> the title comes from 'Lessons on Loving a Prophet' by Jeanann Verlee (which is on youtube, or you could read it [here](http://thymoss.tumblr.com/post/55176318258/lessons-on-loving-a-prophet-jeanann-verlee)) As for where this came from? I had a weird afternoon.


End file.
